


You Might Make Sense

by SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Brief and bitter references to James, But not Malcola or the kids, CH 7 became a Christmas thing, Eventually happier than it sounds, F/M, Fix-It, Gratuitous use of the word soft, Kitchen Kissing, Post-Goolding Inquiry, References to Illness, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:20:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27896704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff/pseuds/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff
Summary: Nicola bumps into Malcolm in the most unexpected of places three years after the Inquiry. Are either of them actually *okay*?
Relationships: Nicola Murray & Malcolm Tucker, Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 69
Kudos: 45





	1. Chance Encounter

The Respiratory department waiting room at Guys and St Thomas’ Hospital on a decidedly gloomy early December morning was just about the last place that Nicola presumed she’d ever bump into Malcolm Tucker again. She’d thought about it quite a lot, if she was honest with herself for once, especially since her divorce had been finalised. It didn’t feel wrong to think about other men anymore, even if only to wonder if they were still alive. There hadn’t been anything about his untimely early death in the papers, and so she’d presumed he was, and now here was the evidence in front of her, sat awkwardly in one of the cold plastic chairs as if he really would rather be anyone else. He hadn’t noticed her yet, a clear departure from his usual astuteness that made her wonder just for a moment whether something was actually wrong with him. It didn’t bear thinking about, even if it had been nearly three years since they’d last seen each other, and so she settled instead for turning away from him, perusing a selection of depressing patient information leaflets in a dispenser on the wall. Asthma, emphysema, pleural effusions, lung cancer – Christ, this really wasn’t helping. 

What was he doing here? How on Earth had Malcolm Tucker managed to insert himself into her predictable daily routine of dropping of the younger kids at school, getting herself an overly sugary drive-through Starbucks and then coming to pick up Katie from work? It didn’t seem right, the One and Only Malcolm Fucker turning up alone and miserable looking in the waiting room of an NHS hospital department. I’d have thought he’d at least have private health insurance, she though to herself, before realising that was a) a ridiculous thought, considering Malcolm’s opinions on the distribution of public funds, and b) not what she really wanted to know, anyway. What she really wanted to know was, firstly, whether he was okay, and secondly, whether he was actually here alone. She risked turning around, taking a moment to look over the other women in the room – the blonde to Malcolm’s left was far too young, surely, she looked about twenty, although she knew that wouldn’t have put off most of the other men she’d worked with in Westminster. The brunette filling up her crinkled plastic cup at the water cooler seemed too absorbed in her own thoughts to be accompanying an ill husband, and besides, she doubted Malcolm would date a woman who drank water, and didn’t just survive on Fanta and the occasional black coffee if someone else took the trouble to boil the kettle. As she turned her attention to the middle aged sensible looking man to Malcolm’s right, supposing to herself that she couldn’t completely exclude the possibility that he might be gay, she froze, accidentally locking eyes with Malcolm himself. Christ. There was no way he couldn’t have recognised her now, even if she was slightly greyer and more tired looking than last time they’d met. He hadn’t changed a bit, she realised, the same calculating look in his eyes as he conspicuously looked her up and down before actually smiling. Well, that was new, at least. 

‘Hi, Malcolm’, she managed to muster up, hoping she didn’t sound fucking nervous. She wasn’t scared of him, not after all that they’d been through, the euphoric highs and crashing, deep lows she’d seen him weather. No, what she was most of all was confused, and then a mixture of pissed off and upset that had boiled together over the years to form a sticky residue of regret that she couldn’t quite rid herself off, no matter how many times she tried to wash it away. He stood, then, so at least she knew he wasn’t at deaths door, and came over to where she was standing against the wall. ‘Hi, Nicola’, he mimicked in an exact impression of her voice, which he’d perfected over the years as the most efficient way to piss her off. ‘What are you – how are you? How have you been?’ she went for at the last minute, deciding it sounded a bit accusatory to outright ask him why he’d been so bold as to stumble into her normal Tuesday morning. ‘Oh, y’know, shits and roundabouts.’ Malcolm replied vaguely, gesturing with his hand in a way that didn’t really mean anything. ‘Went to prison, you know that, got let out, m’sure you read all the Sunday papers. Saw you got divorced, congratulations’ he added, with just a hint of his usual playful twinkle. ‘Oh, uh – thank you, I suppose. One less thing for me to be neurotic about, hm?’ she reasoned, struck by how absolutely normal this all felt. Malcolm Tucker wasn’t someone you just bumped into, for God’s sake, and yet here they were. ‘Are you – you’re not ill, are you?’ she asked, deciding to just come out with it. He definitely looked pale and a little drawn, but when did he not? It would have been weirder if he’d turned up all tanned and muscular, like Malcolm’s head superimposed onto some ridiculous male swimwear model. Focus, Nicola, she reminded herself, determined not to pursue the notion of Malcolm in swimming shorts. Not until she knew he wasn’t dying, at least. 

It was clear that her direct line of questioning had tripped Malcolm up a little, and his carefully crafted confidence slipped a little as he thought over how honest to be. ‘Naw, I’m fine, Nic’la, don’t you worry about me. Got enough kids to be worrying about, haven’t ye? How are they?’ he asked, determined to draw her back onto something more casual, and she was happy enough to follow. ‘Oh, they’re all well, thank you. Well, the ones I see much of, anyway. Katie’s here, actually, she’s training to be an intensive care nurse, so I’m just here to pick her up off her night shift. Ella’s travelling, Cambodia at the moment, so God knows who or what she’s doing’ Nicola smiled, momentarily forgetting the awkwardness that should exist between them according to the natural order of things, and being entirely drawn in by the fact that Malcolm really could be quite charming when he wanted to be. ‘The little ones are fine, not so little anymore. Both at secondary school, which makes me feel fucking ancient’, she admitted, before blushing a little at the accidental swear. ‘Haven’t made any more, don’t worry’, was the reply to the clear question forming on Malcolm’s face, and the way she could still pre-empt him was enough to draw out the most reluctant of smiles. ‘Oh aye, four mini Nicola’s is definitely all the world needs’ Malcolm responded, testing the waters with a little mini-dig. A bite-sized insult just to ensure he didn’t get slapped in front of the other, grey-faced, grey-clothed patients. One of them would probably sell it to the fucking Mail or something, he reasoned internally, if they had enough wits about them to recognise either of them. 

‘Four not-so-mini Nicola’s is all the world is getting’ Nicola promised, about to ask after his own family when she heard the familiar voice of her eldest, chatting animatedly to a little old man as she guided him down the corridor to his appointment destination. ‘Oh, hi, Mum. Do you need any help?’ she asked, presuming Malcolm was a lost or confused patient drawn to her Mum’s instinctively friendly nature like a moth to a lightbulb. It happened everywhere, all the time, and Katie was still firmly in work mode until she looked up and properly took in Malcolm’s face. Christ, it was him – Malcolm, in her hospital, talking to her mum. Everything about it was utterly wrong, and she looked back to Nicola desperate for some guidance. ‘All fine, darling’ was all she got, and a kiss on the head, so she swiped the car keys from Nicola’s pocket and headed out, giving Malcolm a half-hearted ‘nice to see you’ on her way. 

‘I better get her home, she’s awful when she’s tired. Here – wait a sec’ Nicola murmured, digging in her characteristically huge handbag. Malcolm had always made fun of her for carrying around her entire life possessions with her, but it made perfect sense to Nicola’s own slightly neurotic mind. You never knew what you might need, after all. She took out her diary, and a pink sparkly pen which made Malcolm smile despite himself, and jotted down her phone number on a page she then tore out carefully, popping a deliberate ‘Nicola Thornton’ underneath incase he pretended to forget who’s it was as a flimsy excuse not to contact her. ‘Here. Text me.’ she instructed, handing it to him and forcing herself not to react when their fingers brushed against each other’s hands. She didn’t pause to examine whether he would or wouldn’t want to talk to her after all these years, not wanting to lose her nerve or have some sort of emotional breakdown in this cold, depressing hospital waiting room in front of a man she hadn’t seen in years, so she simply smiled a little shyly before turning and heading out to the car park. There she goes, Malcolm thought to himself, tucking the paper into his wallet without really thinking about it. Maybe he would text her. Surely it couldn’t do any harm. 

[6:45pm] Thornton, hm? Can you get me a staff discount on those chocolates Sammy likes? M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline and continuity in this is probably going to be shocking as I have an actual inability to work out plausible dates for things so thank you for kindly going with it! Do drop a comment if anything is woefully unbelievable though. :)


	2. Halfway Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Malcolm is back, until he's not.

What? I don’t get it. N 

Oh, wait, I get it. Very funny. I wish I worked in a chocolate shop, that would be great. Are you and Sam a thing? N 

Shit, sorry, I don’t know why I asked that. Blame the Baileys. N 

Aye, wouldn’t you like to know. Step away from the Baileys, Nicola whoever-the-fuck. Thanks for not being a dick earlier. M 

*** 

His response absolutely floored her, and there was no way to get it out of her mind for at least the next week. Whether it was considering the various potential layered meanings behind ‘thanks for not being a dick earlier’, or imagining Malcolm at home with an older, successful, relentlessly cheerful and still slim and beautiful version of Sam, he was at the forefront of her mind whether she was in Tesco or trying to coordinate clean school uniforms for the next day. Her own life was almost mind-numbingly boring in comparison to the various elaborate narratives she created for Malcolm, existing somewhere out there in a well-kept, expensive house, probably with a dog and a lovely wife, whether she was Sam or someone else she didn’t know the name of yet. And she’d probably never know – she’d replied to him, of course, but he’d gone cold, and nearly four days later she wasn’t fancying her chances at getting a reply. Every time her phone buzzed with another email about parent’s evening or a text from James demanding that they change their custody agreements so he could attend a business meeting or take his new girlfriend on a dirty weekend away, she became progressively more irritated that it wasn’t Malcolm. 

Which was ridiculous, when she properly thought about it, curled up on the sofa with her therapist gazing at her intently though the laptop screen. ‘It’s not like we were ever a thing. We never even kissed, it was literally nothing to him. I don’t even think he was flirting, now I’m away from the whole mess of the situation, I think I just wanted him to be. Yknow, he’s Malcolm, he doesn’t flirt – it would be beneath him. Maybe he doesn’t even have sex, fuck knows. Anyway, what I mean is, I know it’s ridiculous to feel put out about it, but I just wish we could talk about everything. I don’t think it’ll heal me or any of that crap, I think he’d probably just piss me off more actually, but I just – I don’t know’ she rambled, before sighing deeply, rubbing her hand over her face and still noticing the lack of a wedding ring against her skin. ‘I just think maybe I miss him, that’s all. Is that so wrong? You work with someone every day, all fucking day, and you give up your family and your friends and whatever semblance of a normal life you were trying to cling onto. And every day they’re there, even if they’re not happy with you or you’ve let them down, they’re still there, because – well, because he was paid to be, I suppose. It probably wasn’t anything more than that. God knows it wasn’t for the greater good of the Party, he made it pretty abundantly clear that I wasn’t involved in his five year plan, whatever the fuck it was. I’m pretty sure it didn’t involve getting arrested, though, so maybe he’s not so fucking faultless.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth she realised that they’d been bitter, and Penny was looking at her with that unreadable mix of pity and professional despair. They’d been doing so well, before all this had dragged up all the old feelings of resentment and confusion. 

‘M’sorry, Penny, I didn’t – I feel like I haven’t been particularly receptive this session. I’ve basically just been ranting, and I know that isn’t what you’re here for, I just – don’t have anyone else to talk to, I suppose’ she realised with another soft sigh. ‘Stupid, isn’t it? All those people, they pissed me off every day and all I wanted was to be away from them, and now I wish I could have them back.’ Penny was very sympathetic, to her credit, Nicola was pretty sure she’d have hung up on herself by now. She offered some well-meaning advice on re-directing unhelpful thoughts into positive activities like yoga and music, and Nicola was sort of listening, but she could tell none of it was going in. It was like there was this angry, firey halo around her mind, all ‘fuck Malcolm, fuck Malcolm, fuck Malcolm’, and anything positive that she tried to shove or sneak past it was just burnt up before it could actually reach the squidgy bit of her brain. 

‘Thanks, Penny. I promise I’ll talk about something else next week, yeah? I’d like to go back over that positive parenting stuff we talked about, just – not today.’ There were some half-genuine goodbyes said before she hung up, closing her laptop and biting her lip hard to force back the sudden hot sting of tears in her tired eyes. Thankfully the kids were still at James’, so there was nothing to stop her from simply putting her laptop safely on the coffee table and curling up like a baby, closing her eyes so that at least she couldn’t see anything, even if she couldn’t control how much she was feeling. Shutting off one part of her mind at least made the others a bit easier to deal with, and she spent some more time trying to reason with herself internally before deciding it was probably going to be absolutely fruitless. She just couldn’t help her instinctive, long-standing responses – everything was either Fuck Malcolm or Be Fucked by Malcolm, and it had been forever thus.


	3. Fuck-Up Montage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm is having considerably less success with therapy than Nicola - and that's saying something.

The ridiculously ostentatious gold and black clock on the wall was silently informing Malcolm that he’d nearly reached his personal best. Four entire minutes had passed since Georgia had asked him about what had happened between him and Nicola, and he only had thirty seconds of silence to go before he won the coveted award for Most Time Sat in Silence Following Personal Question from Therapist. This was the fourth round of expensive private therapy that his sister had forced him into, and although Georgia had managed to wear him down into answering factual and even some innocent personal questions by what was now their sixth week of meeting, he still flatly refused to answer anything about the last year or so of his time in government. ‘Y’do know he won’t leave her for you, right?’ he said as the clock ticked round to four minutes and thirty one seconds. Georgia just glared at him sternly, refusing to engage in whatever angle of personal attack Malcolm had decided to follow this week in the hope of striking a nerve and making her refuse to see him again like all the rest of his therapists had. ‘Nice try, Malc, but you’re wrong on multiple counts there. You know this is a safe space, right? I’m not going to judge you for whatever you say here. If you’ve been a dick, and hurt people, that’s okay – well, not okay, but it’s okay to admit it. We can work on it, but only if you let me in’ she reminded him, something they’d been over for hours and hours already. Or rather, Georgia had talked at length about it and Malcolm had sat there silently with a face like thunder. 

She could tell he was warming to her at least as little, he’d tell her about his niece and his sister and make polite small talk, and they’d even had one particularly revealing session where she’d gotten him to talk about his childhood. He’d talk about Jamie for days, and she’d even though they were together for the first few weeks, until Malcolm had set her straight with a particularly sharp jab about Jamie’s cock and where it had been. She’d managed to at least encourage him to speak Sam’s name, although he’d looked dangerously on the verge of tears whenever they talked about her, so Georgia had decided to let that one lie for now. Nicola, however, seemed to be completely off limits, and she sighed softly as he simply shrugged and crossed his legs in the high-backed armchair across from her. 

Malcolm was practically immune to any sense of social embarrassment by now, and he knew he was more than capable of spending at least two hours completely ignoring someone who he didn’t want to talk to. Besides, if she pushed her luck any further, he could just get up and walk out. There was a great open-all-hours dumpling place near here that he always went to with Jamie and – ah. And Sam. Perhaps he’d just go home, then, but at least he’d be away from fucking Georgia and her absolute refusal to let him go un-analysed. He’d tried to satiate her curiosity by giving up little bits of frankly useless information, and sometimes he even made things up, but she always seemed to see through that particular trick, and he wondered if he’d lost his knack for lying. Or perhaps he’d never had one, considering how spectacularly he’d failed under scrutiny at the Inquiry. Georgia stood then, breaking him from his thoughts, and he looked up from staring at his own clasped hands to work out what she was up to. Was she going to slap him? Somehow he wouldn’t be surprised, but that was probably against the Code of Ethics that was framed behind her desk. God, but she was an infuriating, posh, do-good bitch, with her fucking prim little blouses and her red heels that he was sure she only wore so that she felt more confident to face down his stares. What the hell was she doing? She was just standing there, staring at him, and for one brief moment he considered asking if she was okay, afraid that she might be having a fucking stroke or something. As much as he hated her, he didn’t want her to die, not least whilst he was alone with her and someone could undoubtedly find some way to pin it all on him. ‘The fuck are you doing, Georgia?’ he asked eventually, and she immediately grinned and sat back down. ‘Got ya.’ She said with an utterly unprofessional wink of her thick false eyelashes. ‘Listen, you don’t have to be here, right? I know Grace is guilting you into it, but if you’re really not ready I’ll call her and explain that you need more time to process your experiences before you’re ready to discuss them in a rational and productive manner or some such shite, right? I really don’t want this to be something you dread, and for most of the last six weeks you’ve looked like you wish you could make me explode with your eyes. I’m not taking it personally, just – I need to know if you’re testing me, or if this really isn’t going to work for you.’ 

Shit. She was onto him, and she wasn’t even pissed off about it, and he didn’t even have any ammunition to fire back at her. His last therapist had been in the middle of a messy divorce, so that was easy enough to weaponise against her, and the one before that had been woefully lacking in self-confidence, so she hadn’t lasted more than two weeks. His first therapist after prison had been an older, balding Professor who had retired early, and Malcolm was intent on believing that this was because he’d finally found someone un-fucking fixable. ‘I dunnae what you’re talking about, lass. Am not here to make friends, am I? I though the point of all this therapy shite was to learn something useful, and so far all I’ve heard is you, all the fucking time, talking shite about fucking feelings and guilt and regret like some maudlin Gothic novel. This isnae a movie, Georgia. S’not gonnae make me feel better, is it, going over it all like some kind of fuck-up montage? Am not going to wake up one mornin and decide to stop being a twat. Ye can’t fix me, m’not broke. This is just what I am, what I always have been, and I dunnae why anyone would want me to change, wish they’d all just fucking leave me alone.’ He hissed, suddenly realising that he’d said a little more than he’d intended to there. Little fucking viper, she’d lured him into that one. 

He stood then, too quickly, which made Georgia lean back a little in her chair, and somehow although he was cross with her he felt even worse that she’d clearly instinctively thought he might hit her or something. He might be a bastard, but even Malcolm Tucker had his limits. He fumbled slightly with his coat as he put it on to leave, a muttered ‘fuck’ slipping out under his breath, and he felt the rest of his rage dissipate as he realised he couldn’t even stride out and slam doors properly anymore. He was old, and fucking tired, and he couldn’t even risk going coatless in December for fear of getting pneumonia. He felt like a husk of the Malcolm Tucker that had gone before, like a crisp packet on a fire, all melted and mutated and charred where it had once been shiny. ‘M’fuckin going. Dunnae if I’ll be back, but don’t bother saving me a spot in yer fuckin desk diary. And don’t ye dare ring Grace – don’t even fuckin think about it. She’s sick. Yer not to talk to her.’ With that he was gone, straight down the stairs and onto the street, although where he was headed was anyone’s guess.


	4. Refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Malcolm seeks refuge.

His first thought is to go to Jamie’s, mostly because it’s close and guaranteed to be warm, but also because Jamie never insists that he fucking talk. What’s with that, people’s obsession with fucking talking? It doesn’t help to dwell on things, or so everyone says, and yet all they seem to want him to do is go over it all every minute of every day and analyse how much of a colossal bastard he’s been. Jamie’s is safe, Jamie is safe, and so that’s where he heads, at least until the presence of a little pink Nissan Micra on Jamie’s drive throws him off. Fucking Gemma, great. Probably up there whipping six shades of shit out of Jamie right now, and for once he doesn’t want to hang around to find out, not even to tease Jamie about it. He puts his keys back into his jacket and turns sharply on his heel, ending up just wandering through a nearby park. He probably looks like a pervert, he reasons, or a recently divorced middle-aged wreck, just wandering around staring into the middle distance as he tries to work out what to do. Going to Grace’s is out of the question, that’s the last thing she needs, and he doesn’t have any other family. Sam is out on the West Coast of Scotland, a move she assures him is more of a temporary ‘break’, but the way she talks about the bubbly blonde landlady of the local pub makes him concerned that it may become more permanent. He thinks about calling her, for a brief moment, but they haven’t spoken in weeks and he doesn’t want to disturb her peace. When she’d been here, under his feet and close at hand, he’d massively taken her for granted, and now she’s gone he doesn’t want to fall into the same routine of only getting in contact when he needs something. She’d accused him of being selfish, not too long ago, and he didn’t have a comeback for that other than a poorly-judged ‘fuck off, Sammy’ that he has regretted in every subsequent waking moment and at least half of his rare sleeping moments too. And she did, to her credit – so he can’t go to Sam’s either.

There’s a small Italian restaurant nearby where he’s always guaranteed a good welcome, and he spends a few moments on the other side of the road looking in before deciding he’s not hungry. Or at least, the memory of the takeaway pizza they’d shared in Nicola’s office when she won the leadership election makes his stomach roll in a way that is at once nauseating and ever so slightly reminiscent of the feeling when Mary Potts had kissed him behind the music room in primary school. Deciding to put that particular piece of self-analysis behind him for a moment, he turns his attention to briefly considering Nicola as a whole as he steps into a nearby coffee-shop and sources some caffeine to take the edge off. She’s sweet, Nicola, always has been, and a very good host when she’s not burdened with four badgering children. They’re practically fucking grown ups now, he realises, and that definitely doesn’t make him feel any better. He doesn’t even know where she lives anymore, presumably she’d have moved after splitting up with that Tory bastard excuse of a shite husband. Or perhaps not, perhaps like Malcolm himself she finds something comforting in existing within a shell of past traumas, perhaps she also wanders around Whitehall late at night when she can’t sleep. There’s something to be said for it, he reasons, burning his lip slightly on the coffee as he steps back out onto the street. But they’d probably have bumped into each other if she did, so if Nicola’s going to be his refuge, he’s going to have to find out or work out where she lives. Unless he intends to just hang around Big Ben until she appears at the stroke of midnight like some frumpy, mumsy version of that fucking fairy in that thing that Ellie forces him to watch.

It takes him until he’s texted Sam asking her if she knows where Nicola has moved to that he realises this was a really fucking bad idea. Not only has he gone against the resolution he made only five minutes before to not bother Sam with menial tasks for him, the notion of turning up at Nicola’s (warm, cosy, familiarly cluttered) home without an invitation is starting to strike him as being absolutely ridiculous. He nearly texts Sam back and apologises, tells her not to worry about it and to ignore him, to go back to Lovely Rachel and the Lovely Pub, but as always, she’s already two steps ahead of him.

_You know the National Trust woods we took Ellie for a walk in? In there. Yes, in the forest. It’s The Gatehouse, Coopers Hill Lane. Gorgeous little thing. S x_

_The house, I mean. Ring me later? S x_

He won’t ring her later, he knows he’ll forget, so he sits on a conveniently nearby bench for two minutes and sends her some flowers from the great little app she’d shown him years ago, a big bunch of her favourite sappy pink and white things with a stupid little card with a kitten on it. He doesn’t write anything inside, doesn’t need to, just a little ‘M xx’ so she knows she isn’t being stalked. Sam had come to very quickly understand his need to express himself mainly in practical, tangible gestures, and as much as people assume it’s because he likes to flaunt his not-inconsequential purchasing power, Sam has always known that this is literally the only way that Malcolm can tell her ‘I’m sorry, thank you, I miss you, please come back.’ Apologies with next day delivery are something he feels confident in, he knows what she likes and it’s hard to fuck up with flowers, after all. He even sets a reminder in his phone (with an alarm) to ring her later, but there’s still every chance that he’ll be raging at something by then and throw his phone against the wall instead of reading what it has to say. When he stands and hails a passing taxi, he can hardly believe that he’s actually giving Nicola’s address, but the words physically come out of his mouth, and by the time they’re driving out of London towards the suburbs he feels too awkward to change his mind and inconvenience the poor guy. It’s a good fare, Nicola lives fucking miles away, and the drive provides an unwelcome opportunity to gather his thoughts. He prefers them ungathered, loose and wooly so he can’t fully predict what he might do next and so can’t take responsibility for it or admit pre-meditation, but by the time he arrives at the small cottage on the outskirts of the woodlands, he regrets to inform himself that he knows exactly what he’s here for. Nicola. Lovely, soft, five foot three and a fag end Nicola, who’s never once turned him away, not properly. Not if he needed something. Not if he needed **her**.


	5. A Soft Place to Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicola is a soft place to land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a really wee little short one to bridge the gap between The Before Times and Whatever The Hell This Is. There will be more! SO much more I promise. I just felt like this was an apt place to let Malcola and my feelings take a break.

It is a testament to Penny’s success as a therapist that the first thing Nicola does when she sees Malcolm on her doorstep is to try and remember how he takes his tea. She’s about to ask if he still takes sugar when she remembers she hasn’t said anything else yet. ‘Malcolm. Hi. Are you – is everything okay? What are you doing here?’ she asked, her mind suddenly kicking into gear, her gently-tamed eyebrows meeting in the middle. What was he doing here? It wasn’t normal for him to just turn up anymore, she remembered, and he’d never come to her _home_ even in what she had taken to calling The Before Times. He doesn’t answer, just looks at his shoes and her slippers and shrugs, and when Malcolm Tucker is speechless that’s nothing short of a disaster. ‘Come in, you’ll freeze’ she huffed, stepping back to let him inside and shut the door. The Christmas wreath she’d foraged for and made with the kids bounces softly as she does so, and it feels somehow ridiculous. Malcolm and Christmas and her house and her kids don’t go together, and she’s suddenly reminded of Terri’s comment about Malcolm being a sultana in a salad. He is, for fuck’s sake, he’s a fucking raisin in the choc chip cookie of normal, settled life, and here he is in her hallway.

Nicola’s house is very pink. That’s literally all Malcolm can think as he stands in the hallway, looking around at the very lightly blush pink walls and the cream carpet up the stairs, the posh (polished!) wooden floor under his feet and the statement wallpaper opposite the bannisters that actually makes his eyes wince. Nicola herself is the same, always the same, but somehow the external trappings of her life seem very new. It takes him a moment to realise that this is because this is _her_ home, not her marital home, and for all he knows James has never once stepped foot in here. And he has, so fuck James, he’s finally won. With that out of the way, he remembers he should be talking, and finally builds up to looking Nicola in the eye. Lovely, big brown eyes that Ellie had once said looked like chocolate buttons. ‘Hi. I’m – nice place. Lovely place, s’gorgeous, bet the kids love the forest’ he smiles gently before realising he’s being a coward. ‘I’m – I’m not really okay, no. Dye have any lemon zinger?’ he asks, trying to remind her that he still _knows_ her, even though he doesn’t, not really. Thankfully she rewards him with her own slightly shy smile, and that’s how he ends up spending his afternoon at Nicola Thornton’s kitchen table.

In the end she coaxes the whole story out of him over a pot of tea and multiple insistent offerings of biscuits. ‘Fuck it, ye’re still awfully persistent, Nic’la, I’ll give ye that’ he sighs, fondling a Golden Crunch Cream for a moment before twisting it apart and biting into the half with the cream. Did she know these were his favourites? She can’t possibly have been keeping them in the cupboard for three years. ‘I was at therapy, this morning. Aye, ‘am going to therapy’ he reiterates in response to the way her eyes dart up from staring into the steam coming off her mug. Going to Therapy might be a bit of an overstatement for sitting there and hoping Georgia doesn’t ask something that will make him cry, but he’s going, at least, and now he’s mentioned it to Nicola he immediately knows that he’ll have to go back. ‘Good – although whoever’s brave enough to delve into your mind deserves more than an NHS salary, so I hope you’ve gone private’ she grinned, never afraid to jab him right where he’s sore, knowing he’ll always laugh it off. He does exactly the same to her, or did, so she stopped feeling nervous about bantering with him about ten years ago. Christ, has it really been so long? ‘Anyway, you’ve missed out the bit between finishing therapy and coming to my house – ‘ she reminded him, grateful that he was smiling, that little wry slightly sheepish smile he did when he knew he’d be in trouble. ‘Well, I sorty didnae finish – Georgie was pissing me off so I just stormed out, and then – well, to tell ye the truth, cause I’m like that now – I didnae have anywhere else to go. I can’t go home like this, I get all manic and start smashing shit up and I’ve only just got the place looking nice again. And Sammy’s on holidays, and Jamie – well, that’s a long fucking story actually – but I couldnae think where to go, and – to be honest I wanted to make sure you were okay’ he admitted, stopping short of actually uttering ‘and I wanted to make sure _we_ were okay’. There’s that beautiful look of soft concern on her face again, and he wants so badly to kiss it off her, but he knows damn well not to push his luck with Nicola. ‘I’m sorry to hear you’ve been feeling shitty’ she goes for, and it’s not what he wants, but maybe it’s what he needs. Maybe matronly, motherly Nicola is what he needs, at least just for now. Is that fucking weird? He finds he doesn’t care. ‘You’re always welcome’ she adds quickly, before he can start speaking again and brush her off, and that’s much more like it. ‘Ye’re one of a kind, Nic, ye know that?’ he mutters, taking another biscuit, and it’s not quite _right,_ he hasn’t yet apologised and he can tell she’s still keeping tabs, but maybe it’s okay. Just for now.


	6. Ruin Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redemption and release are two very different things, and Malcolm isn't wholly sure which one he's aiming for here.

_dont call me kid, don't call me baby, look at this idiotic fool that you've made me (...) you know damn well, for you I would ruin myself, a million little times_  
  
'-and that's basically how I ended up going to therapy, at least the short version. Gracie's sick, keeps gettin' these really awful chest infections and tha', and nobody really knows why yet. Keep doing all these tests on her, poor lass, and she's only just had the baby, so - it's been a bit fuckin awful, to be honest with ye Nic. She said if she was having to go through all this to keep herself around for the kids, least I could do was sort my head out, which - sorta makes sense' Malcolm sighed deeply, looking up at her curled up on the other end of the sofa. She'd insisted that they 'sit soft' after two pots of tea, a ridiculous eighties-ism that reminded them both quite how fucking old they were, and the sight of Nicola's living room had nearly made his breath catch audibly. It was _gorgeous_ , even more so than the rest of her home, and it was clear that this was where she spent the majority of her time. Her feet were tucked up under her legs, and he wondered why he'd even noticed for a few minutes before he realised that she looked comfortable. Relaxed. Not anxious, not plotting her next move or how she could gently encourage him out of her house, but actually just herself. It made him feel really fucking vulnerable, not least when she'd slowly drawing out of him the backstory of how he'd ended up finally going to therapy and the reasons why they'd bumped into each other in the hospital the other week. He could see she was taking it all in and filing it all away, and suddenly he didn't want to talk about it anymore. Nicola was deeply unthreatening and always very gentle, but somehow gentleness wasn't what he wanted anymore. He wanted the old Nicola back, the one who'd by now be shouting at him for being a fucking irresponsible Uncle and a shit brother, who'd be relentlessly mocking him for having so few real friends that he'd ended up here on Nicola Murray's sofa. The lack of push-back was starting to unsettle him, and he wondered for just a moment whether she was actually storing up all these details of his miserable existence to use against him somehow. What was she even doing for work at the moment? She could be a fucking columnist for all he knew, and here he was spilling his guts to her just because she had a warm house and trusting eyes. Christ, Tucker, you're really asking for fucking trouble here, his brain helpfully supplied, and that was it, he was on his feet again and heading to the front door before Nicola could get her head out of whatever vengeful plans she was scheming and realise what his intentions were.  
  
'Malcolm, wait -' Nicola said quickly, snapping out of her thoughts and realising that he was leaving, again, the bastard. 'Malcolm' she said again, firmer this time, closer to the voice she used whenever she had to interact with James. There was a slight crackle underneath it, the smouldering embers of where once had been a Malcolm Tucker fuelled fire, and he did stop, but he didn't turn around. 'Malcolm, fucking look at me, you coward' she hissed, and she really had no idea where it had come from but it felt fucking _good_. 'You can't just come over and use me for comfort and a bit of half-baked recycled therapeutic wisdom and then fuck off again - do you have any idea what you did to me?' She stood then, thinking that if he wouldn't turn around and face her then she'd just have to take the fight to him. She hadn't been intending to say any of this, but there wasn't much chance of stopping herself now. This had always been the problem between her and James, he'd never fucking fight with her, and there wasn nothing more frustrating to Nicola than a man who walked away when he deserved a proper bollocking. 'Look at me - no, no - ' she scoffed, when he actually raised his eyes up from starting at his own socks. 'Not look at me, Malcolm, fucking - _look_ at me. Look at me. I used to be the Leader of Her Majesty's Opposition, you do remember that? I could have been in charge of the Budget, for fuck's sake, I can't even do long division. _You_ made me believe I could do it, even though you knew I couldn't, you knew I'd fall arse over tit and make a complete fucking fool of myself, and each time I did - ' she paused, only to take a deep dragging inhale of oxygen to fuel the fire. 'Each time I did, guess who was fucking there? Taking me by the arm in that way that I _hate_ , giving it all that 's'alright, Nic'la, we'll get it next time, go home and get some rest'. You're a bloody good actor, you know that? If you'd never been to prison you could be doing panto by now, could be one of the Ugly Fucking Sisters, or that bastard from Frozen.' She was completely out of control now, her face and neck flushed deep pink as she forgot entirely that she might need to breathe at some point. 'I just can't fucking understand you! I don't - you can't do this! Do you even know how many times I cried until I was sick after you screwed me over like that and made me think it was my own fucking fault? Do you know what an awful person I thought I was? Do you know how fucking _lonely_ I am?' she choked, suddenly realising she was about to cry. Don't give him the satisfaction, Nicola, she reminded herself firmly, summoning up all her residual anger to actually look him in the eyes. 'I shouldn't have fucking spoken to you, when I saw you at the hospital - I , _we_ , can't do this. This doesn't make any sense, Malcolm, you know it doesn't make sense.' She was definitely crying now, despite all her best efforts, big fat embarassing tears streaming down her nose and cheeks. 'I fucking stuck with you, you bastard. No matter what you did, no matter how much I hated it or thought it was a mad idea, I was there, wasn't I? All that shit about going on Question Time in a fucking fez - that wasn't really a joke, Malcolm. I'd have - I _did_ \- do anything you asked of me.' She was quieter now, more resigned and less angry, as if she'd finally come to the conclusion of this whole fucking mad saga in her own head and was simply communicating her findings to him. 'I don't think you understood how much of a responsibility that was.'  
  
It isn't that Malcolm never apologises. He says sorry all the time, especially now, to people he bumps into on the Tube or the sweet young lass at the coffee shop when she mixes up his order with some other boring middle aged fuck's. He's finally learnt what it feels like to be an imposition on the world, to be conscious of the space you take up and wish it was smaller, less noisy and conspicious. It's just that the word's stick in his throat sometimes, whether he's faced with Gracie's pale, ill-looking face, or Sam's tearful one, or Nicola's quite frankly terrifying one. She's properly fucking furious, he can tell that much, and it suddenly strikes him that the reason why he was leaving her alone was so that he couldn't fuck it up even further. Everything he's touched in the past few years has turned into pure destruction and despair, he's got the Shit Touch, and it doesn't seem to be improving. He doesn't even know if apologising will help - she'll think he doesn't mean it, but he _does_ , Christ he does, it's basically the only thing that he is at the moment. Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications, has been wholly replaced by Malcolm Tucker, whirling fucking tangle of guilt. It's not that he thinks he was _wrong_ , necessarily, he knows why he did it and, God help him, he'd do it again, but he regrets the ways that it affected other people, and the fact that he didn't notice that until it was too late. No, not that he didn't _notice_ \- that he didn't _care_ , not until they were gone. 'I'm sorry, Nicola' he whispers eventually, and then once more with feeling, looking into those bewitching fucking pools she calls eyes and deciding it's all or nothing. 'I'm sorry. I know ye won't believe me yet, and maybe ye won't give me a chance to show you properly, and I'd completely understand that. I didn't - back then I didn't care about how other people were impacted by me getting what I wanted, what I thought was best for the Party and for the country. I was so fucking busy looking at the Big Picture that I forgot I had a fucking life, and that there were people who cared whether I was in a fit state to be living it or not. Ye all were so fucking patient with me, you, Sammy, Jamie, Grace, and I just fucked you all over in the end because I was chasing after something that doesnae even exist. And you - you fucking exist, right? Here, in yer lovely house, with your amazing kids that I never gave a shit about, and all those fuckin brilliant hare-brained ideas ye've got about how to save the world and get turtles to believe in democracy or whatever the fuck. M'sorry I ever made you feel like your ideas were stupid, Nic'la. I mean - look what the fuck I believed in. A bunch of fucking stupid neo-liberal wankers who aren't even significantly less twattish than the other fucking side. Ye were tryna tell me and I wasnae listenin' and - I think it might have all been a lot less fucking painful if I had been.'  
  
He's made so many mistakes, a whole back catalogue of them stretching from childhood through a rocky adolescence, a shocking lack of respect for formal education, a failed journalism career, an ongoing fucking _war_ with alcohol, a failed marriage, another failed politics career, right up to middle age and a complete fucking inability to maintain normal relationships. The only people he can encourage to talk to him are the recently-divorced women he sometimes picks up in bars and takes home for nothing more than a quick shag and a never-ending trickle of guilt in the morning. Nicola fucking not-Murray might well be the biggest mistake he's ever made, but at this point he sees no merit in ranking them. The loss and re-loss of Nicola will be filed away in the mental boxes that Georgia will tentatively try to dig through until she gives up, and what happens next he isn't sure, but he's a fucking street dog, he'll handle it, whatever it is. At least he's had a chance to say his piece, even if she's incapable or unwilling to take it in. He probably would be too, to be fair, he'd have thrown punches by now and yet Nicola's just standing there, looking at him, all flushed and teary and gentle and ridiculously fucking vulnerable and yet relentlessly angry and entirely unwilling to let him go without landing at least one jab right where it really fucking hurts. She's managed that - and more - and he's sort of proud, in some hideous twisted way. She's no push-over, not anymore.  
  
'Are you done?' she asks quietly, and for once he is. He really is. He nods, tiredly, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted right down to his bones. 'Good. Me too. Sit back down, fuckin' idiot' she sighs, and he just blinks at her. 'Nic, I - ye don't have to do this.' He wants her to know that it wasn't really an attempt at redemption, more of a release for his own benefit. His speciality, he thinks dryly. 'I don't do anything I don't want to' she says firmly, and he can't argue with that. Can't argue with her at all, come to think of it. 


	7. Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where it accidentally became a Christmas thing. Good will to all, especially those who have complicated feelings about Nicola Murray - which is you, I know it's you.

What follows is certainly not the easiest afternoon of Malcolm's life. It's more comparable to the day he spent explaining to his beloved late mother that she was going to have to go into a home. The conversation follows the same rolling, slightly sickening rhythm. Explanation, apology. Re-explanation, re-apology. Pause to feel guilty while you wait for explanation and apology to sink in. Realise its not going to - wonder what the fuck we do now. In this instance there's not even Grace to call on, though there are more biscuits, and Nicola's not started crying again yet. It feels after a few long hours like its time to pocket these small mercies and make a move. He makes some sort of weak excuse, and in the nick of time its Nicola who tackles the elephant in the room, standing and very briefly catching his hand before he moves to find his shoes. "Shall we - I'd like to see you in the New Year. I just, with Christmas and the kids, its all a bit mad around here. I've got them from tomorrow morning until New Year's Eve, and I just - I want to do this properly." She looks nervous, and it makes him feel hot and guilty and anxious. He understands, or he thinks he does, but parenthood is a world away from anything he can conceptualize and wrap his head around. "Aye, that sounds sensible" he murmurs, not moving even a millimetre from where he was. She was so close to him, he could fucking smell her apple shampoo, and it really isn't helping him think. "Just text me when yer ready, Nic. Have a great Christmas, aye? Hope ye have a great time with the kids." /The/ kids, he says carefully, not your kids, to avoid reminding himself that he doesnt have anyone to go home to. He's semi-consciously trying to edge himself into her life already, and he better fucking leave now before it gets any worse.   
  
His phone rings just as he's about to head into the Tube station, and he leans against the wall outside where he still has signal. It's much later than he'd realised, and he's missed his stupid alarm reminding him to call Sam, and now she's ringing him. God, she's going to be angry, why does he always make women angry? This is definitely why his marriage broke down. Not any of the rest of the bullshit, it was him and his toxic inability to keep women happy for longer than it takes for them to recover from an orgasm. But he's been floating along on some sort of brave or foolish high already today, and he'd never hang up on Sam, so he picks up with a slight air of trepidation. "Hey, Sammy" he says tentatively, the warm gold Christmas lights of the department store across the road catching his eye. Sam is twinkly, cheerful, playful, more than likely at least one glass of mulled wine in, and he can tell just from the way she trills " _heyyy_ , poppet". Perhaps they're not as far distant as he thought. "How are you-?" He starts, at the exact same time as she says "What are you doing for Christmas?". She's great, and he doesn't have plans, and luckily doesn't feel too embarassed to admit it. Not to Sam. "Do you want to come up here, stay with me for Christmas? Jay's coming, and I just - it'd be nice to have you here too" Sam says quietly, the sounds of a pub beer garden behind her. There's the distant sound of clearly Scottish voices, the creak of a door, and she sounds a little cold. She's definitely smoking, pausing in the middle of sentences when she needs courage. "I miss you" they say at pretty much the same time, then laugh. "Aye, I'll come. So long as we aren't gonnae have to share a bed, ye kicked the shit out of me last time. And 'am not sharing with Jamie either, he'll be groping me all night" Malcolm grins, and theres a lightness in his voice that he hasnt felt since - well, it's been a while. Christ, she's an angel. And she doesn't even ask how it went with Nicola, thank fuck, just says she'll send him some details and makes those stupid kissy noises down the phone until he can't bear it any longer and hangs up.  
  
_Christmas Eve, The Gatehouse, Coopers Hill Lane, London (just about)_  
  
For the first time in months Nicola has all her kids back together. Katie's exhausted from finishing her intensive care placement, Ella's all tanned and enlightened from travelling, Ben's monosyllabic as usual and Rosie is excitable and clingy and hyperactive, but they're here, under her feet and occasionally in her lap and she /loves/ it. They've settled back into an easy domestic routine now, and she realises that when they're at James' she's lost, utterly lost, and she never wants to let them go again. Next year they'll all be just a little bit too old, and she wants to cling onto motherhood as it is now for as long as she possibly can. Its never been easy, and she's never been a natural, but as they get older she finds herself treating them more like housemates than children and that seems to be working out okay. Rosie is still her /baby/ though, and when she settles her head in Nicolas lap to watch a Christmas film in the afternoon, she can't help but run her fingers through her hair and fuss over her. Ben's upstairs somewhere talking to his mates on the internet, Ella's sleeping off her extended jet lag, and god knows where Katie is but she's a grown up now, its not really Nics business. Its nice, having some proper time with her littlest, and they soon fall asleep together on the sofa.  
  
The insistent buzz of Nicola's phone on the coffee table wakes them both, and she's careful not to squish Rosie as she leans forward and grabs it. James. Fuck off, she thinks, and she's glad she doesn't say it out loud, she wants the kids to be innocent to his true nature for as long as humanly possible. There's no respite from a man who thinks he still owns you, not even on Christmas Eve, and when she rejects his call there's a barrage of texts that follow demanding that she get the kids to speak to him /now/ - if she's having them for Christmas its only fair that they ring him, he's got rights and a contract and he's not afraid of her second-rate law degree. She's about to get up and round all the kids up for some sort of awful conference call version of a happy family, when she realises her thumb is hovering over the delete button. In ten seconds all the texts are gone, and it feels like such a weight off her shoulders. For once in her life she turns her back on him, and focuses on whatever the hell the plot of _Arthur Christmas_ is.  
  
_Christmas Eve, Ullapool Beach, Scottish Highlands_   
  
Rachel, it turns out, is like a human moulded from star dust and custard and warm, sweet tea, and Malcolm completely understands why Sam would never want to come home. Sam herself looks much healthier and happier than last time he saw her, and its a relief to know that she hasn't been pretending on the other end of the phone. The flight over to Inverness had felt like he was the little fuckin donkey trekking all the way to bloody Bethlehem, and he's never been more grateful to see Sam's little silver car than he was when he stepped out of the terminal to realise it was /snowing/. Between the soft covering of snow, the country lanes and Sam's frankly terrifying habit of insisting on looking at him when she speaks, rather than the road, there wasn't really a right moment for all the notes he'd jotted down in his organiser on the way over. It embarasses him that he has to make a bullet point list to work out how to apologise, but he's trying, and maybe that's a start. He's never really tried before.

Rachel wisely gives them some space while Sam makes dinner, and Jamie's upstairs calling Gemma, so in between measuring and chopping and stirring and pouring Sam a very large glass of wine, he manages to eek out an explanation of sorts. She looks at him, quizzical for a moment, and then just nods. "Okay. I still love you. I'm glad you're here." Sam's always so fucking simple, everything feels easier here somehow. This little cottage on the beach where all he can hear is his own thoughts and the sea and the gentle tinkly laugh Sam does when she really fancies someone.  
  
It's about eleven when he stops fussing and tidying and making tea and actually /sits/, Sams feet in his lap and her head against Rachel's shoulder. There's a film on, something shite and festive, and he's knackered but he's scared to move and disturb their murmured conversation that he occasionally overhears snatches of. Jamie's fast asleep on the other sofa nearer the fire, his cheeks all flushed from the warmth and his hair sticking up where he's been nuzzling against the cushions. Soft git. He hopes Sam isn't one of those early risers on Christmas Day, since given the state of them all at the moment and the multiple bottles of prosecco the other three have worked through, he doubts they'll be fit for much before ten o'clock and a bacon sandwich. He feels a little guilty for leaving Gracie and David and the kids, but she hadn't seemed to mind, and she'd reminded him very firmly that she wasn't /dying/, and this definitely wasn't going to be their last Christmas together. To be honest, he's hoping that not having guests will allow her to put her feet up and just enjoy the time with her kids, and that thought inevitably leads him circling back round to Nicola. As most of them do.  
  
She hadn't said not to contact her, but he still dithers over it for a long, agonising few minutes before he realises Sam is watching him, looking down at his phone in his hand. She raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow and he knows he doesn't have a defence. Then she's gone, ushering Rachel into her car and insisting that Malcolm can drive her home since he's sober, so he better get up and get going. "Just a sec, darlin'" -   
  
_Merry Christmas, Nic. I'm gonna turn off my phone now, but hope you have a good one. M_  
  
_Miracles never cease. I might give it a go too. And you, send my love to Sam and Jamie. Merry Christmas, Malcolm. N x_


	8. Baby Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Baby in the Bakery Aisle. Nicola is Besotted. Malcolm needs peppers.

_(12:01 am, January 1st. Consumed: two gin and tonics, two white wines and a "bit" of Baileys)_

My New Years revolution is that we're gonna be friends again. N x 

_(12:05 am, January 1st. Consumed: three Fantas and a black coffee)_

Go to sleep, Nics. Happy New Year. M x 

* * *

It ends up being February before they see each other again, though they exhange a few texts before promising to meet soon and "sort everything out". Its more Nicolas pet project than Malcolms, he's not convinced he deserves what is probably his sixth or seventh chance, but she seems pretty insistent. As usual. It never materialises though, and her text on New Years swims around in his mind, though he thinks she's probably forgotten. She'd sent him about six pictures of her socks after that, so he's hoping she hadn't bothered to scroll back any further when she woke up the next morning. Either way it's never mentioned again, and its probably for the best. The last thing the world needs is Nicola Murray staging a fucking New Years Revolution. 

The cold, damp atmosphere of late January had done nothing for poor Grace, and Malc ends up having to take the kids when she's admitted to hospital late one Friday night. There's talk of getting a nanny for them, but he absolutely won't tolerate the idea, and if _he_ can't be with Grace, then David better be there every single waking second. So "just for the weekend" turns into "just until Gracie gets home", and he tries not to think about when that will be. He's always been an attentive Uncle, or tried to be, but he's never had Ellie in his sole custody for more than an afternoon, and he's never had baby Theo on his own at all. He's never had any baby under his sole care, come to think of it. There's always been someone there to pass the baby to, when it's cried or shit or done a little sick, and it seems against the natural order of things for this responsible adult to now be him. Thank Christ he'd never managed to get Lucy pregnant. 

It turns out that neither babies or toddlers are easy. He'd thought Ellie would be easiest - at three, she can communciate with certainty what she wants, and his intention had been to just give her whatever that was. But she doesn't seem to yet possess the part of her brain that stops her from wanting cake for breakfast lunch and dinner, or that finds it unreasonable to demand that Uncle Malcolm get her a little baby horse, **now**. Ellie is not the easiest. Baby Theo is easier to get along with, he's a pretty good companion for curling up on the sofa and watching re-runs of _Yes Minister_ while Ellie plays in front of the telly. But he cries, an awful lot, and he can't eat normal stuff and it turns out he can't just drink normal milk either. Making the poor wee lad a meal is a marathon of bottles and scoops and boiling water and then you have to wait for it to cool, so why the fuck do you have to make it so hot in the first place? Ellie's in the spare room, in a double bed that's far too high for her, bracketed by these detachable sides he got off the internet, after a middle of the night panic that she might fall out and hit her head. So that means Theo's in with Uncle Malc, tucked up in his travel cot, which in turn means that Uncle Malc is awake most nights, either worrying about him or just staring at the way his tiny chest moves up and down as he snuffles and coos in his sleep. Christ. Much longer of this and he's finally going to know what it feels like to be a dad. He concludes it doesn't feel quite as magical as he thought it would. 

Dragging them both round the supermarket on a Wednesday morning (the quietest time where they are least likely to get stared at) has become the low point of Malcolm's weeks. Well, the penultimate low point, second only to any second he spends in that soul-sucking hospital. He doesnt have time to make a list - he finally understands that now and feels bad for always grumping at Grace about it - and so he simply wanders around the shop in a daze. Ellie is running ahead down the aisles, and Theo is /sobbing/ in the stupid little seat at the front of the trolley, and Malcolm has to name all the US states in his head to stop himself from completely losing the plot. Bless Georgia and her distraction techniques, maybe he should try listening to her more often. Ellie is quite a way in front of him now, dashing through the shop in search of the mini doughnuts he'd foolishly promised her for putting her shoes on with minimal fuss, and he's just about to call out for her when she runs headfirst into the legs of a lady perusing her shopping list. "Oh! - hello. Mind where you're going, sweetie" the Nice Lady says, looking up in search of whoever owns this feral child, and that's when they meet again. Of course the Nice Lady is Nicola. Of fucking _course_. 

Maybe its just his tired scratchy eyes, but she looks different, her hairs slightly lighter and gently curly and she's wearing some sort of elaborate shirt-scarf-cardigan combo over some leggings and a pair of white trainers with sparkly bits on the sides that make her look both four years old and effortlessly _fun_. He surely never noticed her like this when they were working together, besides making sure she was wearing something appropriate and not likely to fall over in her heels. He'd never have gotten anything done if he'd had the same sharp focus on exactly what jewelry she's wearing, how she's done her hair, the way he just wants to be wrapped up in the folds of her oversized cardi. Theo is still sobbing. Maybe he'll try sobbing too. "Don't you think he might be a bit hot, Malcolm?" Nicola suggests gently, bypassing hello completely to gaze into the bundle of coat and hat in the front of the trolley. "Oh - shit, aye, probably. Grace said not to let him get cold though." Malcolm dithered, very much unsure as to how many clothes the baby needed to be wearing at any time. Ellie is putting multiple boxes of doughnuts in the trolley. He doesn't care. "Yes, well... are you cold? Im not cold. So he probably doesnt need his coat _and_ his hat on, hm?" She reasons, and it's at once gentle and thoughtful and also playful and teasing. That is exactly how he remembers her. 

There's a practiced ease to the way Nicola lifts Theo out of the trolley, resting him safely in her arms as Malcolm undoes his little coat and wiggles him out of it, slides off his knitted hat to reveal a mess of blonde curls. "Oh, you're **perfect** " Nic coos, leaning down to kiss Theos head before realising she's not supposed to accost other peoples babies in supermarkets. "Im so sorry - I get drawn in by the cheeks" she admits with a soft blush, handing him back over to Malcolm, who looks decidedly less comfortable handling the now quiet little boy. "S'fine, honest, I - he likes the fuss" Malcolm reassures her, utterly transfixed by seeing her here, so normal and real. "He's your nephew?" She asks, suddenly worries that Malcolm Tucker has multiplied in the time since he left prison and just forgotten to mention it. "Oh, aye, this is Theo, my nephew. And that little monkey is El, Ellie. Ellie. _Ellie_. Stop doing that" he sighs, trying to stop the endless flow of bakery items into his trolley. 

Perhaps she's being overly sentimental, not to mention over-optimistically broody ( _at your age, Nicola, really?_ ), but there's something that appears deeply vulnerable about Malcolm in this moment. He just can't do it, the eyes in the back of your head, mind on fourty different things, _do we need peppers? stop touching that_ cycle that is hardwired into her central nervous system. She checks the time briefly on her phone, weighing up her own familial responsibilities. She's got time. He needs help. Its a deeply instinctual reflex that makes her pop her own basket inside his trolley, encourage Ellie away from the croissants and head down the aisle, offering him a smile that's warming but invites no arguments. _You need help_ , her eyes say, not for the first time, but today he doesn't have a choice but to accept. She's got his satsumas, his niece, his wallet, the stupid massive baby bag in which his entire life now seems to be stuffed - he has no choice but to follow this mad shepherdess in entirely unsuitable footwear. "Do you need peppers?" she asks, and he thinks they probably do.


	9. Honey Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the mildly implausible Kitchen Kiss you've all been waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song mentions/inspirations:  
> "Ivy", Taylor Swift  
> "Finally / Beautiful Stranger", Halsey  
> "I'm Sticking With You", The Velvet Underground  
> "Morning Sun", Melody Gardot

It takes significantly less time than usual to shop with Nicola's help. She seems to just know where everything is, and what they might need, and she's a natural with the kids in a way that Malcolm can only dream of being able to emulate. Ellie is besotted with her, and they chat away as they progress around the supermarket, Nicola's sparkly trainers almost matching Ellie's light up ones with little rainbows on. They look utterly adorable together, and he probably looks utterly incapable, bouncing Baby Theo on his hip as they stand and peruse the cereal selection. "What do you like?" Nicola asks, and there's a hint of a playful smile. "Steady, lass" he grins, and she laughs and it's - everything he's wanted to achieve since twenty minutes ago when Ellie ran headlong into her. Since a month ago when he sat on her sofa and prostrated himself at the mercy of her size four Christmas-socked feet. Perhaps since long before that, but he doesn't really want to think about that for now. He'll save that one for Georgia, she'll enjoy digging into that and leaving him feeling bruised. He'd let Nicola bruise him. She deserves it. She's still just looking at him, and he suddenly realises that he didn't answer her question. "Cheerios, please" and he suddenly blushes from having to ask her for something. She pops them into the trolley and heads off, hand in hand with Ellie, and Theo makes a little gurgling noise that Malcolm thinks probably represents what his brain is doing right now. 

Nicola insists on coming home with them, following behind them in her little bright blue Citroen, and Malcolm has to remember very actively to focus on the road rather than gazing at her in his rear-view mirror. There's a metaphor here somewhere, something about objects being closer than they appear, maybe, but Ellie's yelling along to Baby Shark and Theo looks like he's just brewed a truly objectionable shit. Nicola hadn't really given a reasoning, he realises as he pulls up onto the drive of his house, gesturing to Nicola as he gets out to just park wherever. The traffic warden never fucking comes. She executes a very competent parallel park into a tiny little space between the neighbour's ostentatious deep green classic Jag and his mistress' Fiat 500, and he respects her greatly for that. Just for that, mind. No need to get ahead of themselves. It's definitely at least a three person job to get toddler, stinking baby and a week's worth of shopping into the house, but they manage. Sometime between the last time he'd properly seen Nicola doing anything physical and now, she's developed upper arm strength to rival Michelle Obama, and carries all of the shopping through into the kitchen whilst he's still busy changing Theo. Halfway down the stairs with a now linen-fresh baby, he watches her carry in three bags on each arm, lock his car with the fob in one hand, Ellie's juice cup in the other, and shut the door with a push of her hips. It's like ballet. Homely, domestic, fucking.... _hot_ ballet. James Murray is a fucking idiot. _He's_ a fucking idiot. 

"Where do the eggs live?" Nicola asks when Malcolm reappears, turning to him with a smile, realising she'd been humming that Taylor Swift song that had been on the radio when she'd pulled up outside. Surely Malcolm doesn't know Taylor Swift, so that's fine - he's not a mind reader, he can't possibly know what it makes her think of. "By the bread bin, m'not one of those weird fridge-egg fuckers" Malcolm says with great decisiveness, as if eggs in the fridge might be the thing that makes her turn around and leave, makes her realise that all of this is utterly bizarre. Nicola doesn't know what that thing would be. Somewhere between leaving the house for a quick trip to Tesco and being here, in Malcolm's well-stocked, _posh_ kitchen, she appears to have lost all sense of rationality. "Maybe it would be easier if I-" she starts, and the word "go" forms briefly on the back of her tongue but it doesn't feel right. Tastes wrong. Bitter. "If I hold the baby, since you know where things go." There we go, that was it. Heart wins again. She takes Theo, enjoying the once familiar weight of a babe in arms, accompanied by the soft babble of children's TV in the background. Ellie's curled up under a pink blanket with her elephant, watching Thomas the Tank Engine, and that's exactly what Nicola wishes she could do. It looks fucking amazing, and she briefly realises that without a husband and with the kids spending the next two weeks at the aforementioned not-husbands house, she's the only thing stopping herself. Malcolm switches the radio on as he unpacks the shopping, and it's pure muscle memory to bob around a little with Theo, singing to him in that quiet, low, slightly husky voice that James had always said made her sound like a chain-smoker. Theo is a much less discerning (dickish) audience, however, and his happy little gurgle makes her tummy clench. 

" _I'm sticking with you, cause I'm made out of glue_ " snaps Malcolm out of his groceries induced haze, and he turns to face Nicola almost too quickly. She looks startled, fuck. "Sorry, I - used to have this record. Havenae heard it for ages" he explains, which is true and yet not quite the whole story in that way he's so good at. He did have it on record, it was the background to much of his formative shagging, in fact, but it's not true that he hasn't heard it for ages. It's just that hearing it from Nicola's lips - not her lips, that's far too Much, her larynx, pharynx, whichever fucking one it is - collides both those worlds so sharply that he thinks he knows how the fucking dinosaurs felt. She's smiling, oblivious, like those fuzzy little wombat things that won't evacuate in Ice Age. _I was born in this hole and I'll die in this hole_ , and Christ if that doesn't sum him, her, them up in a convenient nutshell. Theo doesn't make much of his uncle's revelation, or apparently Nicola's soft rocking dance, and chooses the most inopportune moment to cough wetly and sick up down her dry-clean only cardi. "Oh! Oh _fuck_. Malcolm, take him, I - oh god. Have him back, I can't-" Nicola flaps, and he's about to offer to get it cleaned for her if she'll only stop being so hysterical when he notices the colour draining out of her cheeks and realises its not about the dry cleaning fee. "S'okay, two secs, I've got wipes somewhere" he promises, taking a proper chunk of sweet-smelling damp baby wipes from the packet and briefly wiping Theo's mouth before turning his attention to Nicola. "Here" he offers, but she's just staring at Theo with far too much resentment for a showdown between a fifty-odd year old woman and a fucking baby, so he handles it for her, as always. Despite the sick, she smells warm, slightly citrusy, and the floral scent of the baby wipes blends in to her general scent as if it belongs there. He's not quite sure if he wants to kiss her or ask her to sort his life out, but there's a definite tangle of confusion and emotion starting to bind together in his stomach like bedsheets in a tumble dryer. 

The slightly over-enthusiastic middle aged presenter on the radio is still prattling on when Malcolm steps back and chucks the wipes in the bin, his gentle dabbing having cleaned up the worst of the mess without leaving a stain. He briefly considers sticking Theo in his bouncer and sending his afternoon sending sarcastic responses on Twitter to the bloke's irritatingly eager questions to the audience, before he remembers he's still on a two week ban for those ones about Piers Morgan. Nicola it is, then. She still hasn't said anything, and he steps back closer to her on a whim, an instinct, a wing and a prayer, whatever it is, he just does it. The Radio Prick slides his fucking button things and sticks on a sultry, vintage recording of "Morning Sun", and if he believed in Fate he'd be telling her to fuck off. "I like this one" Nicola murmurs, finally, and of course she does. Its exactly the sort of saxophones and crooning thing he can imagine her swaying around in her socks in her kitchen to, waiting on her microwave lasagna and only-just-cold hefty glass of "that one with the kangaroo on". She's leant back against the cupboard he keeps his plates in, the counter top level with the truly delightful curve of her lower back, and its not like she's _short_ , but it's suddenly intoxicating, this sense that she's here and real and has to look up to lock eyes with him. She's still wearing fucking Christmas socks. It's February. "Can I-" he whispers, slightly surprised he can actually fucking speak, just as she says "Malcolm, I-" and they both laugh softly, nervously. "Yeah?" He asks, wanting her to finish what she was about to say. Just in case it wasn't what he wants to hear. "Yeah" she says back, a little husky, calm and sure and certain, and it takes him all of thirty seconds to catch up. _Yeah_. It's so Nicola it almost winds him. 

After all this, it's bafflingly easy to lean in, and they tilt their heads the right way on first try. Malcolm thinks he read somewhere that it's to do with your dominant writing hand, which way you tilt your head when you kiss, but that doesn't make sense, because he's pretty sure they're both right handed. And he definitely went right, because he spotted the freckle on the top of her shoulder just before his eyes slid closed. She must have gone left, but then again Nicola's never, ever done what she's supposed to, not when it really matters. He respects her for that, now that they don't work together, at least. That and a million other things. Maybe she is left handed? It's only this exact moment that he's ever thought to wonder, and he curses his lack of curiosity. It would make sense, she's Nicola. Her lips are beautifully soft, slightly sweet with vanilla lip balm, and his breath catches as she kisses him back firmly, sparky and sparkly in that way he'd missed so much it aches. They have to do this again. At least a million times. There's no world he can comprehend in which they don't. 

_this world was made for dreaming, this world was made for you, this world made for believing in all the things you're going to do, oh honey child_


	10. Peachy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate endings.

**7:45pm - ten missed calls.** Jamie 🍑 (8 missed calls). Sammy (2 missed calls)

**Three Wise Fucks** _(Whatsapp Group Chat)_

(M) Has something happened?

(J) Fucking finally!!  
(J) Where have you been?  
(J) Fuck you, by the way 

(S) We're fine. Someone got a little carried away when you hadn't been active for a while, that's all. All good?

(J) Did ye get lost in Tesco? Senile fucker

(M) Aye, all fucking great  
(M) Nicola's here, actually

(J) Nicola Nicola?? Not some other Nicola?

(S) 👀👀

(M) Nicola Nicola. Long fucking story - emphasis on the fucking.   
(M) Kidding. Not yet, anyway. We're gonnae have dinner. Curry. If Ellie ever goes to sleep. 

(J) Christ alive  
(J) When did ye get so fuckin old, eh? Shagging _after_ yer dinner  
(J) Surely ye can just - hypnotise her or something  
(J) Ellie, not Nicola

(S) Try lavender  
(S) Ellie, not Nicola  
(S) Nicola likes onions, a lot, but she won't dare get them if it's a "date". Just saying. 

(M) Not a date. But thanks, pet  
(M) Am gonnae go. I'll ring ye both tomorrow

(J) 👋  
(S) Don't want to see you before nine! Enjoy yourself. 

* * *

New conversation  
 **Recipient** : Katie 💞💞

Hiya, love. Hope I'm not disturbing your evening with Michael. 😍🥰💞 Just one quick thing - how do I close my account on Guardian Singles? I think we used your email address. Love you loads!! Mum xx 

P.S. Make sure you get an early night. Dont do anything I would do. xx 


End file.
